Hello, and welcome to Russians in New York! And today our fic comes from the fine scene of a American truckers diner.
Tala glared down at the table, determined not to look foolish in front of everyone. Bryan did exactly the same thing, for precisely the same reasons. Spencer was trying not to laugh, and Ian wasn't paying attention, since he had just managed to get into the CIA mainframe, and was reassigning all of their agents to track Boris. Despite the fact that he loved irritating intelligence services and Boris especially, Tala was more interested in the plate in front of him. It still had a huge piece of steak on it. Bryan's plate had a similar steak on it, and both were the size of a world class Beydish.
"On three." one of the other customers said, delighting in the chance to be an anouncer for once.
"One"
"Two"
"THREE"
Bryan groaned, and began to eat.
Half an hour later, Ian looked up from deleting his Interpol file, and saw that Tala had eaten half of his steak. Bryan was two thirds of the way through his, but was slowing down. Ian decided to give his captain some rare support.
"Some might say it is half full, but you could say it was half empty."
Tala scowled, and began to eat faster.
Bryan looked sorrowfully down at his final piece of horrible, horrible steak. He didn't want to eat it. This was worse than one of Ian's "surprises" which normally involved a large amount of snow, some intricate piping and a person having a bath. He gazed blearily across the table at Tala, who was lifting the final mouthful towards his face. Bryan hung his head in shame, then saw his final mouthful only a centimetre away. He lunged, and swallowed the meat, at the same time as Tala. Then, they both passed out on the floor. The manager came over, and shook Spencer by the hand.
"Well done. Now for a free meal, your table only has two more courses to go."
Spencer looked at the two sociopaths on the floor. He looked at Ian who signaled frantically that they should run. He looked at the three foot high stack of waffles coming through the door of the kitchen.
"They're paying." he yelped, and followed Ian out of the door.
And so, as the Beyblade of time unleashes the move of destiny...and the Bitbeast of knowledge doesn't come out due to a strop, I notice its the end of the fic. Please review. (Nb I do not mean to offend any Americans who read this so please take it with some British humour, and laugh at yourselves.)